Talk to Me
by Nicole Berman
Summary: GS. 3rd in Butterfly series. To get what you want, you have to speak your mind.


  


Summer was always the busiest season for the CSU investigators in Southern California.  It was a strange rule, but it had proven itself.  Everyone had a theory; some said it was the heat that drove people crazy, others thought that the kids being out of school contributed to the higher juvenile offense statistics, although that didn't explain all the adult crimes.  I didn't have a theory, I was just grateful for the increase in allowable overtime.

Grissom and I had settled into a routine of sorts since our first date.  Most nights, I came home and signed on to my IM, usually to find him already waiting for me.  We'd spend hours talking about nothing at all.  We exchanged articles; I told him about the more unusual cases that came through my unit.  He regaled me with tales of the team's exploits, and my throat always tightened a little as I pictured my friends, going about their lives without me, although Grissom assured me that they missed me.  Every conversation felt a bit more comfortable, until one night he surprised me, something I was growing used to - if one can become used to being surprised.

His IM popped up before I'd even had a chance to write 'Hello'.  "Hey, you're home."

"Just got in," I typed my reply.  "Everything okay?"

"Sure."

I couldn't tell whether he was hiding something, an unfortunate side effect of instant messages.  I had an overwhelming urge to hear his voice, and I wrote, "I had a really long shift.  You mind if we continue this on the phone?"

"I can't."

"Oh.  Am I interrupting something?"  I knew my defensive reaction was probably unfounded.  If Grissom had female company, he wouldn't have messaged me.

"No.  I just can't hear very well right now."

I kicked myself, wincing as his words echoed in my head.  "Sorry."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not."

"It's not something you get used to immediately," Grissom wrote.  "When I was younger, sometimes I'd yell for my mother two or three times, before I remembered she'd been deaf for over a year."

"So you'll forgive me?" I typed with a smile I truly wished he could see.

"Done."

I revised my next message four times before hitting 'send'.  "Have you decided what you're going to do when you can't do field work anymore?"

"I've thought about it," Grissom replied after a pause.  "And I don't think I'll change much of anything.  I've put in a request to hire a new Level 2, and once that's approved, I'll train him or her to take over my share of the field duty.  I'll keep doing entomological evaluations and evidence analysis, as much as I can."

"That sounds like a good plan.  You're handling this well."

A typically cryptic message from Grissom was his reply.  "How else can I handle it?  It's not like I have a choice."

Worried that I'd stepped on a conversational land mine, I shook my head and typed, "I just meant that you seem to be extremely prepared.  I didn't mean to sound patronizing."

"You didn't.  I have to go."

My fingers flew, trying to catch him before he signed off.  "Wait."

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry.  Again."

"Don't be."  He added a sideways smile that I knew was meant just to make me feel better.  "I'll talk to you later.  Bye, Sara."

"Bye."

* * *

It seemed as if I'd hardly blinked, but another fall had come and gone, marking two years since I'd left him - *left Las Vegas*, I corrected myself.  Grissom's hearing had gotten steadily worse, and my guilt over being so far away seemed to be increasing as his aural acuity was decreasing.  I was inclined to completely ignore the fact that he was the real reason I left in the first place, and he hadn't really tried to stop me from leaving.  I was planning my third Christmas jaunt to Vegas, which had quickly become a tradition.  Every Thanksgiving, Lindsey and Catherine came to Long Beach and every December, I made the trip to Nevada.  In between, whoever had enough comp time and frequent flier miles would hop a plane for a three-day weekend.  I was browsing Travelocity for cheap fares when my phone rang.  I grabbed the receiver automatically.  "Hello?"

"Sara, it's Catherine."

"Hey, Cath!  I was just looking at tickets for Christmas.  When did you want me to fly in, the twentieth?" I asked cheerfully.

"Yeah, the twentieth.  Sara, listen, I called about something else."

Her tone of voice made me sit up straighter.  "What's wrong?  Is Linds okay?"

"We're both fine," Catherine replied immediately.  "This is about Grissom."

My heart leapt into my throat.  "What happened?"  A thousand horrible scenarios flashed through my mind - a car accident, an ex-convict with an axe to grind, another freak explosion at the lab.

Catherine sighed softly.  "Relax," she said.  "Nothing physically happened.  He just didn't show up for work today, and we got a little worried when he didn't answer the phone."

"Why are you telling me?" I asked, beginning to calm down.  "What do you want me to do?"

"Did he say anything to you?" she inquired.  "Lately, I mean, has he seemed different?"

I shook my head to myself, glancing out the window, catching sight of the young gay couple I'd seen every so often walking down the pier.  I watched them, my mind three hundred miles away, as I told Catherine, "Other than being upset about his hearing loss?"

"He won't talk to any of us about it," Catherine said quietly.  "Has he said much about it?"

I started to say 'No', but caught myself.  "We've talked about it once in a while, but nothing specific.  He seems to be handling it pretty well, but you know Grissom.  He doesn't tell anyone how he's feeling."

"Okay.  Listen, I'm going to say this on the condition that you never repeat it. Ever," Catherine emphasized.

"Spit it out, Willows."

"I think you should come home.  Not at Christmas, although you're welcome then, too," she said, intercepting my question.  "If you can get a couple of days off, I think you should come back to Vegas now."

"Catherine, what's really going on?" I asked, worry constricting my throat.  I reset the webpage, typing in the next day's date and my preferred flight time.

"It would do Grissom good to see you," she replied cryptically.

"He's not going to appreciate my showing up on his doorstep unannounced," I argued, even as I clicked 'Buy Now' beside the flight I wanted.  He and I could work it out when I arrived.

"So call him," Catherine suggested.  "Maybe he'll pick up for you."

I scoffed lightly.  "Yeah, we'll see.  He's no more fond of me than he is of any of you."

"Give it a try, okay?  We've done everything we can."

"Okay."  I hung up and immediately dialed Grissom's number.  Getting a busy signal, I disconnected, then dialed *66.  The recorded message assured me that my call was next, and as soon as the line was free, it would ring back to alert me.  I finished on Travelocity and paced the apartment, waiting for Grissom to put the phone back on the hook.  I knew him too well to think he was talking to someone, and so did Catherine, which is why she was concerned.  I wondered if perhaps Grissom couldn't hear well enough to answer the telephone anymore and was embarrassed to admit it, but I thought that if that were the case, he would have had his phone line disconnected.  Grissom always put practicality above emotions, including shame.

I finally gave up waiting and went into the bathroom for a shower.  I took the cordless in and set it on the edge of the sink - just in case.  I showered and got into comfortable shorts and a tee shirt, but the phone still had not rung.  I sank back into my chair with a cold glass of iced tea and was settling the laptop on my knees when I saw my list of online contacts.  Three names, one lit up in yellow.  Grissom was online.

"Hey," I messaged.

"Hey," he replied quickly.

"You okay?" I typed.  I started to write, 'Catherine's been trying to call' but replaced it with, "Been trying to call, but it's busy."  Best to leave the rest of them out of this.

Grissom's reply made me chuckle softly.  "I took off work today and didn't feel like talking.  But then, Catherine told you that when she called you, didn't she?"

"Yes."

"At least you're honest.  You'd never drop by with a thermos full of chicken soup on the pretense that you thought I was sick."  Grissom's IM was dripping with sarcasm.

"She didn't!"

"No, she sent Nick."

I chuckled harder.  "Nursemaid Nick.  Yeah, that's plausible."

"Sara..."

I wiped my tears of laughter away and wrote back, "Yeah?"

"Thanks."  Was I imagining the hesitation I couldn't hear?

"What for?" I asked.

"For worrying.  When you call Catherine to report on my condition, tell her I appreciate their concern."

"You don't, though.  LOL."  I tried to soften my accusing tone with an online laugh.

"No, but I'm beginning to understand it."

"That's something."  I sighed, wording my next comment delicately.  "I might not wait until Christmas to visit again."

His reply took a little longer than I thought it should, but I swallowed any reproval.  Maybe he was in a mood to get drunk and forget the day - God knows he was entitled once in a while.  "Really?"

"Yeah.  How's your calendar look tomorrow?"

Grissom's reply was quick.  "You're coming in tomorrow?"

"Thinking about it," I lied, even as I printed out my electronic plane ticket.

There was a pause, then the IM dinged again.  "I'll be around.  I requested the rest of the week off.  There are some things I've been putting off that I have to get done."

"How about I message you when I get to the hotel?" I offered, my stomach fluttering in anticipation of seeing him again, and hearing his voice one more time.

"Good.  See you tomorrow, Sara."

"'Night, Grissom."

* * *

I sent him a message the moment I set my bags down in the hotel room.  "I'm here," I said simply.

"Come on over.  I'll buy you breakfast."

"See you in a few."

I hopped in the shower to rinse the stench of travel off me, and took far longer than I should've to pick an outfit.  I finally arrived at his door and rang the doorbell, sighing as I realized he probably couldn't hear it.  I was reaching for the doorknob when it turned beneath my palm, and the door opened wide.

"Hey," I started to greet him, but Grissom held up a finger in the universal sign for 'Shhh'.  Tilting my head, I questioned him with my eyes.

He looked like a kid on Christmas morning, his eyes alight.  Grissom stepped away from the door and ushered me into the townhouse.  I glanced around, searching for the reason for our silence.  I looked back at him, and Grissom thrust his hand past the door, which was ajar, reaching around the corner.  All of a sudden, the lights began to flash, one quick flash every ten seconds for a minute.  I grinned at him as he shut the door.  "Pretty neat."

Grissom gave me a small smile, signing something quickly.  I wasn't sure of the exact translation, but I recognized most of it.  It was, "Not bad for a week's work," I think.

I know I surprised him as he opened his mouth to explain.  I answered him in halting ASL.  "I think...great."  I could see him swallow hard and his smile widened.

"Thank you," he signed.

"Why?" I gestured, automatically speaking the word as I signed.

"Everything," he said softly, waving the subject away.  "Want to see the rest?" he asked aloud, and I nearly forgot to reply, I was so wrapped up in listening to the rough honey of his voice.

"Sure."

Grissom led me to the counter and flipped open a new cell phone, completely unlike the ones we carried for work.  "It's more of a palm pilot than a phone," he informed me, showing me the stylus and touch-screen.  "I got unlimited text messaging for the life of the contract."

"Nice."  I ran my hand over the small silver phone.  "Sprint's a good company," I commented, trying to hold back tears.  The entire situation seemed to have upset me more than it had Grissom, but I was determined not to let him know.

"They've been really accommodating," he acknowledged, setting the cell phone down and gesturing across the room to his computer desk.  I followed him over and immediately saw the pair of sleek TTY phones.

"Why do you have two?" I asked.

"One is going in my office," Grissom explained, "the one with the printer.  That way, all my conversations are recorded, and my ass is covered."  He grinned at me.  "If Ecklie thinks he can use this to force me out, he'd better think again."  My grin joined his and I chuckled.  "The one without the printer is for personal calls."  I raised an eyebrow and Grissom defended, "It's mostly for my mother.  She wants to be able to talk to me without using a computer.  For someone so progressive, she's actually quite the technophobe."

"How will you know the phone's ringing, if the doorbell is hooked up to the lights?" I asked, curious.

"Oh, they're both hooked into the lights," Grissom explained.  "I had the electrician out yesterday.  The lights blink once every ten seconds when the doorbell rings, and once every five seconds when the phone rings.  But I haven't told you the best part."

"What's that?"

"If the smoke alarm is set off, the bed vibrates in case I'm asleep, the lights flash continuously, and it's hooked up to an extra-loud alarm so if I'm not home, one of the neighbors can call the fire department."

I expelled a breath audibly.  My worst fears had been allayed.  I had been worried that Grissom, in his quest to ignore the obvious, would leave himself open to harm.  I should've known better.  Grissom is, at his core, a scientist, and once he saw that there was no way out, he had made every attempt to accommodate his condition while preserving the independent lifestyle to which he was accustomed.  "What about things like grocery shopping?"

"I have the fax numbers for all my favorite take-out places, so I can fax orders in," Grissom replied.  "Did you know Safeway delivers?"

I groaned in disbelief.  "They deliver groceries now?  Why the hell am I still wasting my Saturdays at the store?"

Grissom shrugged with a little smile.  "So," he asked, leading me back to the living room, "what do you think?"

"I think you've done a wonderful job," I effused, trying not to sound like a proud mother hen.

Grissom strode over and sat down on the couch, and I joined him quickly.  "It's not that I'm excited about this, obviously.  But I feel so much better now, with everything set up.  I'm prepared for it."

"And you still have your IMs," I reminded him.  "So I'm only a click away if you nee--if you want to talk to me," I corrected swiftly.

He nodded, smiling slightly.  "That's good to know."

Uncomfortable silence lingered for a moment, until I cleared my throat.  "You mentioned breakfast?" I reminded him.  "I haven't eaten since last night."

"Breakfast it is," Grissom signed, saying the words aloud as he did.

"Pancakes?" I signed back.

"You learned the sign for pancakes," Grissom commented with a proud smile, as he stepped into the kitchen.

"How else would I ask for them?" I replied seriously.  "I taught myself all the important ones."

"Which ones?" he asked, watching me as his hands worked to scoop cupfuls of pancake mix into a bowl.

"Pancakes, spaghetti, vodka and chocolate," I grinned as I signed the words.

"Ah, the four food groups."  Grissom chuckled lightly and my heart raced.  I loved making him laugh, rare as it was.  "What else have you learned?"

"Right now, I have the vocabulary of a four-year-old," I said.  "I can understand a lot more than I can say, and my grammar is still awful.  I can count to a hundred, though," I said proudly, demonstrating by signing 'one hundred'.

"Very nice.  Next time I need to communicate with a deaf toddler, I'll be sure to give you a call."  Grissom leaned over to turn the range on, pouring pancake batter into the frying pan.

"Hey, be nice," I chastised teasingly, "or I'll get your mom to teach me how to insult you in sign language."

* * *

When breakfast was done and the dishes were loaded into the dishwasher, Grissom and I sat on the couch and tried to make small talk.  His updates on the local weather soon gave way to our usual IM discussion in three dimensions.  He began telling me about the latest case he'd worked on, and I sat in rapt attention, listening to him.  Grissom went on for a while, and I just nodded, murmuring comments and encouraging him to continue.  After a while, he slid his glasses off and set them on the coffee table, examining me like one of his specimens.

I blushed under his stare.  "What?"

"What do you want?"

"Right now?" I asked, confused.

"In general," Grissom clarified.  "What do you want from life?"

"Why?" I asked, hesitant to answer for fear that I'd jeopardize our shaky beginning.

He shrugged.  "Curiosity."

I began slowly.  "Well, I guess...I want to feel understood.  I want a job I love, and to come home from that job and have someone there to talk to, someone who understands me."

"And you think I understand you?"

"Yes," I replied without hesitation.  "Better than I'd like to admit."

"What else?" Grissom asked solemnly.  "House? Kids? White picket fence?"

I gave the question a moment's serious thought, then shook my head.  "Not necessarily.  If I were in the right situation, any of that might be acceptable," I replied neutrally, "but they're not requirements for my happiness."  I gathered my courage.  "Let me turn it on you, Grissom.  What do *you* want?"

"To connect," he replied immediately, the light blue of his eyes meeting mine fearlessly, though I saw his nervousness in them.  "To see the value Catherine finds in spending time with people, to interact on the level others do, even if it's only for a day.  To feel like I'm a part of everything around me."

I chuckled breathily.  "Join the club.  You have any ideas on how to accomplish that?"

"Only one," Grissom replied, his voice lower.  He reached out toward me, then withdrew his hand, letting it hover above my knee.  I waited, afraid to breathe, for what seemed like the longest moment, until Grissom's hand covered mine.  His was warm, slightly damp and shaking.  I covered it lightly with my free palm, steadying Grissom's fingers between mine.  Our eyes were still locked above our nestled hands and I began to shiver in time with Grissom's shaking.

"And what's that?"

"Have dinner with me tonight."

THE END

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